


are we falling or flying?

by ignited



Category: Incredible Hulk (2008), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Dreams, Established Relationship, M/M, Size Kink, body transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There’s a delicate balance between scientific study and morbid fascination, and Tony Stark sits squarely in the middle, Bruce reasons.</i> Bruce becomes “one with his inner Hulk” and Tony bonds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	are we falling or flying?

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a prompt by **grayscaled** , “Tony bonding with the Hulk.” Sort of veered off prompt a bit but I hope you enjoy it. There's also some influence from the college experiments Banner talked about in _The Incredible Hulk (2008)_. Many thanks to **regala_electra** and **fourfreedoms** for the betas and fantastic input!

 

 

It’s hard to tell if you’re falling or flying when the wide stretch of ground looms up, dizzying in its vastness.

Tony would call it, ‘falling with style.’

His eyes tear up, as blurry shapes become objects, vivid details snap into focus, and he has to brace his body for impact—

Sometimes the ground breaks underfoot; a cloud of debris that stings his eyes.

It’s the slowest part—that split second that feels endless, how his muscles coil before he lurches up again, the ignition in the gun that shoots him off, another jump up, howling into the wind.

Other times, he doesn’t get to step two.

His very human body breaks and splinters, and then he wakes up, dreams of glory cut short.

 

 

 

“So, _that_ was amazing,” Tony murmurs. He’s groggy and soon to be punchy without that shot of morning caffeine in his system, so Bruce lets him ride it out. “Good work, Doctor. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Bruce stretches, aching in rediscovered places, the good kind of ache that doesn’t follow any dark aftermath. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”

“Rude,” Tony snaps, shuffling on the bed before he scrambles out, nearly digging a heel in the soft flesh of Bruce’s thigh. “On a not at all petty note, I’ve had at least four faux sex tape scandals. All woefully inaccurate. And inadequate.”

Tony still looks sure as hell pleased with himself, standing proud and naked as he checks his phone.

Bruce yawns, legs akimbo and tangled in sheets. He doesn’t want to get up for the next few hours at first, because it’s not always standard for him to have a bed, a place, a little scrap of land to himself. It doesn’t help that he’s still burning off the alcohol in his system, that old dull buzz he isn’t used to, not since college and _before_. He frowns, a little whine that escapes his throat.

Tony reads it wrong, murmuring, “Sorry, sorry. Not really feeling the cuddles today. You kick in your sleep. It’s kinda cute, if not completely terrifying. Like a goat—on steroids.”

Tony pauses. “I think that example got away from me there.” He grins, flinging the phone onto the bed with a flourish. “So. Shower, then breakfast, then R&D for a couple hours, and _then_ , dinner. Or lunch. Whatever comes first. Mostly I’m just concerned about blowjobs.”

Everything shakes for a minute, that haze of morning light through slowly opening windows burning Bruce’s retinas. Here comes the hangover, slick and oily through his system. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose just as Tony sits next to him abruptly, bumping his elbow. “Remember what I said about pointy things not setting me off? I’m pretty sure this revokes that. Too early.” He groans, falling back on the bed. “Giant green rage monsters need sleep, too.”

“Think of the headline. _The Naked Hulk_ ,” Tony says, the rest of the inevitable joke dies as he clears his throat.

It’s too early for dark humor, Bruce reasons, but he says it anyway, “I think the other guy’s sleeping it off to, uh, greet you.”

“Holy cow, wouldn’t that be something,” Tony says, and he’s back to picking up steam, staring off in the distance, all kinds of a green hued world of _no_ in his mind’s eye. “But, you know. Angry sex isn’t really your thing, I get that.”

“No, it’s not,” Bruce replies, rolling onto his side. He catches Tony staring at him, and he stares right back before the moment’s broken, Tony’s hand slapping Bruce’s bare thigh. “Oww.”

“Up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty.”

 

 

 

_“You’re tiptoeing, big man. You need to strut.”_

No matter how much Tony likes to pry, he can only skim the surface, barely touching what rests deep in Bruce's bones.

Maybe he’s been there all along, Bruce thinks. Before the incident.

Maybe he just needed to be woken up.

 

 

 

“We’re talking college experiments,” Tony says, and he’s sitting on a chair, backwards, rolling a pen between the point A and B of his outstretched fingers. “And not the beer pong and grass kind. That could’ve been your problem, Banner. Not enough weed.”

“Oh, I had plenty,” Bruce says easily, and he can spy Tony’s grin out of the corner of his eye, this new little puzzle piece of information unlocked. They give and take, a steady push and pull, because the thrill is in discovery—like the schematics Tony has laid out here in blue and red. _Everyone gets a floor. Even you._ “These were different.”

“Induced hallucinations, right, right.” Tony changes tactics, swiping the glass surface. Old scans of Culver University lab results pop up, typewritten, _back in the day_. “Tripping the light fantastic.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, gingerly poking at the holographic display, magnifying it. “Like a… “ He gestures. “Like this sense of euphoria and release.”

“Oh. Not just… Good old fashioned pot?”

“Tony.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, squinting at the scans. “Jesus Christ, that’ll pack a punch. The amounts here—they dosed you up with that much? Hello, control levels!”

“Yeah. But my earlier point still stands. Being… Him, being the other guy, it’s kind of like that. But heightened. Sort of. Distorted. Everything’s loud and these bright—these _noises_ , I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”

Tony frowns. “‘Couldn’t’? You mean it’s not like that now?”

“When I can have some semblance of control of it, lately… Yeah, then…” Bruce shrugs. “Then it’s… Then I can see.”

He makes a fist and the hologram dissolves into thin air.

 

 

 

The thing is, giving in would be so easy. _If you’re always angry—_

And then the moment passes, and it’s hard to keep focus. The entire body changes and shifts. Muscles expand, bones lengthen, organs grow. The body burns and strains to catch up with the new cells, new blood vessels, new _everything_.

And when Bruce can’t see straight from the pain—because there’s pain every single time, no matter how fast the transformation is—the only way to feel release is to embrace the power and ride that wave of endorphins, let go, and hope to God this so-called survival mechanism doesn’t kill anybody.

Tracing the thin line between them both, him and the other guy, and it’s like stepping off a cliff into the vast sky below.

Waiting for the ground to swallow him up.

 

 

 

He tries to keep his body clean of irritants—being on the run and without food helps, certainly, or how he tastes vomit in his mouth sometimes after changing, expelling the contents of his stomach (or his mind, or soul, or _Hulk_ ). So he goes through the motions of putting a kettle on, the fragrance of green tea soothing.

Tony’s at the breakfast nook, engrossed with his tablet before he jerks a thumb at the counter. “I made breakfast.”

Styrofoam and aluminum foil, paper and plastic bags. “’Made’ being you ordered out.”

“Same thing,” Tony says blandly. He looks up. “Wasn’t sure if you’re still on a granola crunch kick or if you want something greasy.”

“Greasy’s good after,” Bruce replies, not only for hangovers, _after the other guy_ , lifts the container towards Tony in thanks.

“Mmm, Mr. Green Eyed Hangover, guess what, we’re gonna fight today,” Tony says all in one breath, no ifs, ands, or buts about it in his tone. “My schedule’s clear.”

Bruce prepares his tea, gauging how much Tony wants to talk right now, and how quick Bruce is getting a rise out of him by staying quiet. He settles in next to Tony, poking at his lukewarm eggs. “Does Pepper have any say about your schedule anymore?”

“Pepper cleared it for me. Specifically. She’s a fan of the big guy.” Tony shoves a piece of toast into his mouth, hops off the stool. “Especially for merchandising. Hey, you know, if you go ahead and consent with your likeness—you really should, it’d be a great nest egg—”

“Tony!” Bruce interjects before that thought inevitably goes off course. “I don’t want to fight with you,” he says with a laugh.

“Oh come _on_ , it’ll be fun. You get your ya-ya’s out, he gets to play, _I_ get a sparring buddy and some semblance of pride at helping you inch closer to control, everybody wins. Then, you know, blowjobs. How can this be a bad thing? It’s—“ Tony falters, one, two, beat before he finishes lamely with, “It’s for, uh— _science_.”

“Science, huh?” Bruce takes a sip. Tony's fishing for excuses if he's using the science routine. “If I say yes, will that make you happy?”

“Like a kid at Christmas,” Tony answers, beaming.

 

 

 

There’s a delicate balance between scientific study and morbid fascination, and Tony Stark sits squarely in the middle, Bruce reasons.

Enough time has passed that _help_ replaces _cure_ , because it has to; there’s no getting out of what he’s become.

He knows that now.

He can feel Tony’s eyes on him as he slips away and folds in on himself, as his body splits open raw and shaking into wakefulness, into violent, vibrating life.

Bruce sinks in and before he’s swallowed whole, he runs the calculations and—and then he _focuses_.

Fixed point. A taut thread, ready to break.

The focus point becomes his mother, his work, and long hours, vibrant, thrill of discovery—or screaming, that rush of success—or Betty, _Betty_ , but then it, the anchor, changes.

Sometimes it’s five other uncommon individuals. That symbol, that new makeshift family.

Other times, it’s just the one person that’s his anchor.

The thread is clear in the sea of green, and lately, the thread is red and gold.

And he’ll open his eyes, the Hulk’s eyes, vision streaking, wild, acid that slams into focus, and he can see.

 

 

 

Striking up a friendship with the Hulk is not as easy as it looks. That’s a given. After the battles, Tony recounts it in words or footage, if he’s feeling particularly look-how-cool-my-tech-is. But Bruce remembers it in instincts, _senses_ ; he pieces together the fragments that make up this growing bond.

It starts with saving Iron Man after he’d taken out the Chitauri mother ship, how every fiber of Bruce’s being screamed in determination to save him, and he’d done it. They’d done it.

After though, it’s two steps forward, one step back. The Hulk—or Bruce, or both, he’s not sure—can pick out those he cares for and protect them. But he’s still rough around the edges.

 

 

 

“Hulk go with Tin Man.”

“Uh, not to make a mountain out of a mole hill, but _technically_ , it’s Iron Man—”

The Hulk spits dismissively, arms folding in front of him. He grins, teeth broad and blunt. “Shellhead.”

“A natural poet,” Tony offers, saluting Steve below. “Hulk and I will cover the northern quadrant, Cap.”

Steve salutes back, a quick two-fingered wave before he’s throwing his shield into the masses of hired thugs on the ground below, with Clint and Natasha fighting nearby. Lightning strikes in the distance, a ripple of concrete and ash hundreds of feet away on the other side of the compound. Looks like Thor’s busy.

So it’s just the two of them, and with Hulk following nimbly below, Iron Man blasts off north.

Tony’s already got JARVIS recording everything out of habit; ways to improve flight or his repulsors, what works and doesn’t work. He tries to get a good look at the Hulk below, trying to gauge how far or high he can jump, the amount of weight and pressure he can stand and—and he’s just _fascinating_ —

And Bruce shines through, beyond the (albeit, gamma irradiated) good looks—the way the Hulk frowns, how he can tap into Bruce’s quick thinking and figure out tools, the differences between friend and enemy.

Or how he allows himself to be cocky or smug in ways Bruce would never let himself be. The id unleashed.

The Hulk plows into the scattered crowds of thugs on the ground below as Tony does a sweep of the building. He keeps tabs on Hulk; the big guy’s almost gentle with the way he pushes them aside, because he can really get into it, break them all so easily. But he shows restraint.

“Hulk follow Tin Man!” the Hulk shouts as Tony starts to move to the far buildings. “Hulk protect!”

Hulk doesn’t have an earpiece either—kind of hard when your ears are tripling in size, Tony reasons, until he can figure that one out—so short of blaring his plans to the bad guys, Tony has to wave, and hope to hell Hulk gets the right idea.

He doesn’t; at least, not when he leaps and brings down the far building door, clean off its hinges and smashing the computer console Tony needed to hack.

“Crap. Hey, buddy, next time no smash?”

He gets a loud grunt in return as he throws a wall right past Tony’s shoulder, whizzing close enough so that Tony barely gets a chance to jerk out of the way. The broken wall hits a guy armed with a killer jetpack, who’s now crashing to the ground, harmless.

“Sorry,” Hulk mutters.

“That’s my boy.”

 

 

 

Sometimes it’s better when Bruce doesn’t remember everything.

In training with Tony, becoming “one with his inner Hulk”, getting focus, he’s piecing it together quickly. Day by day, the progress is astounding.

Sometimes, it’s embarrassing, like waking up after the Hulk threatens to smash television cameras, Tony swooping in and dropping a line or two, all flash to cover up Hulk’s frustration.

Other times, it’s the very real sensation of helmets and bones crushing under Hulk’s hands and feet.

The very human terror Bruce feels at flying and attacking in the space of seconds, because the human body is not meant to withstand—or deal out—such pain so easily.

The real human body feels strain on its muscles, resistance rising up against it.

It’s better that Bruce doesn’t remember how the world feels like it’s made of tissue paper, soft and breakable.

Tony is breakable, too, just flesh, bone, and metal; a strong tap from one of Hulk’s fingers could fracture his arc reactor. Bruce can break Tony so easily; it’s this unrestrained power he has over him, over _anything_ , ready to call up in seconds.

And how it thrills him every time he does.

 

 

 

“You might’ve fooled everyone else, but I’m onto you,” Tony murmurs, his breath soft against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce tenses instantly, feeling a flare of worry in the pit of his stomach. Teetering, and it crashes down into relief when Tony follows, saying, “You might not have all your shit together, Dr. Banner, but the parts I see, I like.”

“Oh? Care to elaborate?”

Tony grins against Bruce’s neck, dragging his fingers down through Bruce’s chest hair, squeezing a little. “Somehow I don’t think being the Hulk bothers you as much as it used to.”

“Well,” Bruce says, leaning back on his elbows as Tony reaches his belly, legs. “Next time you turn into a two ton rage monster, give me a call. We’ll swap notes.”

“Half a ton, thank you, I’ve done my research,” Tony says as he preps, hand slick as he does a slow and lazy pull of Bruce’s dick. “C’mon, there’s no shame in being one with your inner cuddle monster. Could spice up a thing or two.”

Bruce leans forward now, sudden and feeling playful. He grabs Tony’s neck and cheek, thumbing the scruff on his jaw. “You’re telling me you want, what? You want me to turn into the other guy?”

“Bucket list,” Tony says, eyes lidded, punctuates by teasing the head of Bruce’s dick with his thumb. “No harm done if you’re getting your jollies, Jolly Green.”

Bruce sucks in a breath, vision a little blurry as he grabs and pulls Tony’s head, shoving him down. “You’d think after all this, you’d gain a sense of self-preservation.”

“Denial, huh. Your sense of control,” Tony starts, and then his voice is muffled by Bruce’s dick, taking him in, lapping up from root to tip, “…is better than you think.”

Bruce stays quiet save for the moans that escape his mouth; Tony can reduce him to silence like no one else, and make the most embarrassing shit come out of his mouth, dirty, guttural, things he doesn’t remember saying to anyone else, ever, not even _before_.

“Fuck, _fuck_.”

“There’s a lot of you in him,” Tony whispers, cupping Bruce’s balls, a little tug before he adds, “And him in you. You know what you want, Bruce.”

Bruce groans, his hips bucking up under Tony’s fingers. “You think so?”

“All your life,” Tony murmurs, and he’s sweaty and hot to the touch. But he’s looking up, and swallows him whole again, pulling off to say, “But now he lets _you_ loose.”

The Hulk is separate, Bruce knows. A thin line divides them both.

But sometimes, it’s easier to pass off that the Hulk bleeds through, that he doesn’t let him out willingly, that the Hulk has him swearing and seeing green before he comes down off his high, back to earth and back to Tony.

Back to Tony’s goddamn mouth, how he moans, _amused_ , as Bruce flushes green, color that spreads out along his flesh as he focuses.

The thread’s red and gold in his mind’s eye, as his body changes ever so slowly, burning up hot, muscles straining from the need of air and blood, a constant flux.

He’s pulling back now, feeling his mind cloud up from both Hulk and Tony, the base, bestial urges of Hulk, the fucking wonderful things Tony manages to do with a shifting Bruce and his growing dick.

 

 

 

The ground breaks beneath his feet and hands, swirls of dust he snorts at, breathes out and in, lurching up again.

He feels the wind in his face, tiny little pinpricks against his eyes.

Rocks and scraggly green bushes below, shapes that blur and sharpen as he falls—jumps—again.

Before this, part of Hulk—Banner, puny but angry, always angry—knows they’d gone out into the flat lands on a Quinjet, with Iron Man as an escort for the “world’s biggest five year old.”

Now, the Hulk spots the red and gold in the corner of his eye, how the Tin Man zips and zags, shiny and pretty.

“You call that a jump?” Tin Man, Tony, _Tony_ says, “Come on, show me what you’ve really got!”

The Hulk grins and jumps up into clear skies, soaring as Tony calls and shouts, happy.

 

 

 

For all of Tony’s bluster about his specifics—how _needs_ coffee, early, how he can’t be handed things—and that they come off as distant, bratty, he’s wrapped up in the sheets, warm and cuddling against Bruce’s side. It’s something he does a little more often now, more because Bruce lets him.

They haven’t done the panicking, _don’t touch me, I’m a monster_ sort of freak-out—Bruce is a grown man, and so is Tony, he reasons, even if he doesn’t always act like it. Bruce is soft in places, salt and pepper in his hair, middle aged and if it’s supposed to go downhill from here, on top of his anger issues, Tony knows what he’s getting into.

So he lets Tony cuddle and clench a hand around Bruce’s thigh, twitching in his sleep.

“Maybe you’re right,” Bruce mumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Maybe I’m learning to deal, or… I don’t know, enjoy it, I guess.”

He stretches, looking at the length of Tony’s body, how his muscles bend and cave a little around the arc reactor shining on his chest.

“This the part where you whisper sweet nothings and tell me how hot I am, right?” Tony murmurs, one eye shut, the other snapping open. He frowns with his whole face, veiny, red, and definitely without coffee. It’s on purpose. “I’ll save you the trouble.”

“You caught me,” Bruce says. “Red handed.”

“Green handed,” Tony says, palms Bruce’s hand, rubbing his thumb along the curve of his wrist. The skin flushes, green, tan, and then pink. “It’s okay if you do, you know. Enjoy it.”

Bruce winces at the word, _enjoy_ , and the other guy—Hulk—and how they’d not supposed to go together.

“You think?”

Tony shrugs. “Hell, what am I, a psychologist? I got nothing. I just think you shouldn’t beat yourself up so bad.”

Bruce nods. “Huh.”

He feels Tony stretch out on the bed, slowly getting his bearings. He’s yawning when he starts again, saying, “Hulk likes me the best. That should tell you something.”

“Yeah?” Bruce feels his mouth quirk into a smile as his body starts to wake up.

He feels it, _him_ , stir within, too, before he settles.

And for now, that’s okay.

“Uh, _yeah_ , it does,” Tony says, looking baffled. “Clearly, that means he has good taste.”


End file.
